


Please, Just Kill Me Now

by DeathServedWine



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, F/M, Gen, Humor, Mild Language, Other, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathServedWine/pseuds/DeathServedWine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been one week since Hawke and Fenris had sexy times, but things are still a little awkward. Especially now that they were forced to face each other for their weekly gathering at the The Hanged Man with their companions. Not that that means anything bad would happen. Not to Hawke, anyway.</p>
<p>...Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve always been bothered by the fanfictions related to FemHawke and Fenris. They’re pretty much a copy and paste of the following: angst, anger, and sex. Honestly, after awhile I just feel like a sadistic pervert.
> 
> And is it just me, or is it weird when the characters call Hawke by her first name? You know, because they never do that in-game? Just me then? Aaaaalrighty. 
> 
> So this my love letter to Bioware—and to myself, really—since I want to read something a little more upbeat and fun. But I haven’t written anything in ages so I think I may have gone a little too far. It’s 20 pages, guys. 20 pages. In Microsoft Word. How did this even happen?! And I ended up reading and rewriting this five billion times, so what should’ve been a quick little blurb turned into a college-level paper. 
> 
> Also! I really love the banter from Legacy, so I’ve included some of it in here. I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.
> 
> By the way, the Narrator is not reliable and has a horrible sense of humor.

Ah, The Hanged Man. Truly an establishment with character. With its dimly lit candles flickering in the wind that poured from the many holes in the walls and ceiling, its aroma of ammonia permeating through the air, its crude sense of irony as it served its iconic swill that tasted drier than a stale loaf of bread, and its unforgettable, downtrodden, drunken patrons who carelessly stumbled upon the finery and waitresses, and in so doing, generously offered their ales—and other unmentionable fluids—to the wooden floorboards beneath them. Yes, a lovely inn and bar for those nestling at the very bottom of society. And then there was Hawke and her merry band of misfits.

For Hawke, it was just another night at the water hole; caged up with the animals from all facets of the city come to quench their insatiable thirsts. And Hawke adored watching them from the height of the stairs as they awkwardly wooed and brawled and fell all over themselves. Or rather, that was a lie. Well not so much the behavior of the patrons, but the conditions of her situation. As much as Hawke had hoped—begged, even—it was “just another night” at The Hanged Man, the Maker had a hilariously dry sense of humor that especially thrived in awkwardness and general discomfort. You see, it was about as far from normalcy as Hawke had ever been and although she too shared the same sense of humor with her Creator (or was it her father?), she couldn’t find anything laugh-worthy about her current predicament. It had been a week. “A week, since _what_ ,” you ask? Since Fenris.

It’s a story long told since the beginning of time by all proper family households. When a woman and an elf love each other very much, the elf kind of loses his mind and goes into a fit of panic and totally abandons her after a night of unimaginable passion. And he steals some of her shit too. Well, maybe it’s _not_ the most generic example of love, but such is the tale of Serah Hawke. Just the mere recollection of that steamy and tragic night with Fenris, the closest thing she’s had to a best friend and a lover in ages, flooded her body with equally opposing emotions: pleasure and humiliation. It all came as a shock to her, really. She was used to being the one trolling everyone she met, because let’s face it, it was hilarious. But she had never done that with her friends (too much) and definitely never with Fenris. So when the tables turned and he did a victory dance right out of her bedroom, it was _unexpected_ to say the least. She hadn’t cried, but she did sit on her bed in nothing but her undergarments with her head resting on her hand as she struggled with herself on whether or not she was upset or impressed.

And here she was, a week later, meeting with her friends at their unofficial hangout for the first time since that encounter. Oh, and Fenris was here. Because it’s not like hiding her shame behind a mask of wit was difficult enough in front of very perceptible people who knew her like the back of their hands. _Well,_ she thought to herself sarcastically, _I’ve always entertained the idea of becoming an actress. Just think of it like an audition!_ She then shut her eyes, furrowed her brow, breathed a deep sigh, and facepalmed herself from here to the afterworld before she spun on her heel to face her demons. Or at least she wished they were demons; it would be much more pleasant.

Hawke stepped into Varric’s room and quickly glanced around the table at her friends as their conversations carried over each other and added to the atmosphere of the shoddy establishment. Merrill was in the process of handing out everyone’s drinks, and spilling some (to her dismay) on Aveline and Anders in the process. Her clumsiness was rewarded with looks so strained that it became incredibly obvious to anyone watching that it was taking all of their strength to keep from eviscerating her innards and streaming them along the walls as decoration. Or something like that, anyway. Varric seemed in good spirits as he shared a hearty laugh at their expense, the glory of which trumped only by Isabela’s comical and flirtatious teasing as she “helped” Anders wipe away the ale on his groin, despite its true location being his shoulder. Hawke couldn’t help but snigger; her heart suddenly unhinging its heavy burdens. What foolishness! This was going to be a cake walk. Just like old times, just like—

_Well, crap._

Her heart skipped a beat, and then flew into a frenzy as it snatched up its load and began working double time, as if punishing itself for even thinking it could relax.

There were two seats left, both next to each other and sandwiched (how dirty) between Isabela and Fenris. The latter of which was thankfully busying himself in conversation with Varric; far too occupied to witness her content expression harden to stone as she spouted strings of obscenities within the recesses of her mind. She stood there, bewildered, like one the statues in the Gallows—the horror on her face so raw and powerful, any poor soul who dared look upon her in that instant would spontaneously combust. Because if Hawke was scared, then the world was clearly ending. Luckily, it lasted only a split second as she regained her composure, but still remained unsure of which seat to take. It was obvious that sitting next to Fenris would be akin to lying on a bed of spikes as she doused herself in acid, but refusing was another problem all on its own. It would raise suspicion. Hawke could see it now:

_“Oh look, Hawke isn’t sitting next to Broody, how strange and unusual and demented and **weird**. Something probably went wrong, like they had sex and Fenris jumped out the window to commit suicide or something. Because Hawke sucks at sex. And isn’t even remotely attractive.”   _

She sighed as she placed her hands on her hips and dipped her head as she shifted her weight onto her heels. Clearly her trademark gestures of anxiety, or so her mother and sister would say. Carver was too busy measuring dicks with her to notice anything about her mannerisms. _Oh Carver, you poor, stupid, lucky fool. You clearly got the better end of the bargain in this whole mess_. She decided she’d risk the suspicion, and unintentional insult to Fenris, if it meant she wouldn’t be making a fool of herself much longer. Completely coolheaded and ready to take a stab at the night, she took a step toward the chair beside Isabela. But, she was comically cut off when Merrill popped in front of her and claimed it in one swift motion. Although she managed to save face, thank the Maker, her heart keeled over and dropped right out her chest and onto the floor. As Merrill placed the last mug of ale on the table in front of the only available seat, she spun around and smiled.

“Lethallan! I saved you a seat next to mine, I hope you don’t mind. Well, it was actually the only seat left since Isabela came before you, but I’m not saying I don’t want you to sit next to me. Actually, I really do want you to and I got you a drink but wasn’t sure what you wanted so—and I’m rambling.”

Hawke smiled sympathetically and pulled out the chair between the elves. As she gracefully slid in, she teased, “Oh Merrill, you vixen. You know I’m a sucker for run-on sentences. Talk nervous to me.” With that, she gave a quick wink. An obvious joke. An obvious Hawke-thing. So obvious and normal and expected. She hoped it was enough to conceal her inner turmoil.

As Merrill silently laughed behind closed lips, Varric began shuffling the cards as usual. “So, Hawke, last to the table, eh? You know what that means.”

Hawke, in the middle of sipping her ale raised an eyebrow at the dwarf, too lazy to set it down and properly ask him what he meant. Fenris, chancing a side-glance at Hawke, reached for his ale as well to take a swig.  
  
“You can’t bet money. Only clothes.”

Ah, there it was. Two fountains of ale shot out of Hawke’s and Fenris’s mouths like geysers at the shock of the dwarf’s announcement.

The entire table fell silent as Hawke struggled to control the physical effects of embarrassment while wiping the alcohol from her chin and off the table. Fenris, on the other hand, was failing miserably at doing the same. A furious blush painted his face, as if saying, “Look! Look at this one! There’s something going on here!”

As Hawke cleaned up and Isabela completely burst into a fit of laughter with Merrill quietly following suit, she thought to herself, _Damn it, Fenris! If you had kept your cool this whole table would just be laughing instead of taking out their magnifying glasses!_

Despite herself, she offered him another cloth to clean himself up as she handled his side of the table. He paused and lowered his eyes with embarrassment, but humbly accepted the token with quick words of gratitude. As the fabric changed hands, Hawke caught sight of a flash of red wrapped around his wrist. Strange. Once he shifted his attention away from her, she returned her gaze to it, realizing that it was hers. At least they weren’t so far gone that they couldn’t still be civil. And tragically romantic. That was… somewhat reassuring.

Aveline eventually snapped out of her surprise at the two kids’ reactions and smiled, “I’ve never seen your face turn that color before, Fenris.”

Latching onto the game immediately, Isabela quipped, “What’s this? Don’t tell me the thought of Hawke’s _naked, luscious_ body gets you all hot and bothered? Mmm… those curvaceous hips, tiny waist, bouncing breasts, and shapely legs…”

“Th-That’s not—I didn’t—“ Fenris charismatically added.

“I don’t know, Rivaini, are you sure _you’re_ not getting all hot and bothered?” Varric chuckled, sensing his friend’s distress.

Isabela, who had started lightly touching her collarbone and daydreaming—andwhat a daydream it was, too—could not answer Varric’s question as she simply had not heard it. Whips, handcuffs, chocolate, and strawberries danced to the seductive siren’s tune that was Isabala’s mind.

Aveline delivered one swift kick to her person and snarled, “Come off it, will you?”

With her lovely world of debauchery shattered before her, Isabela rubbed her thigh and bit her thumb, “I can’t help it. Hawke’s a real feast for the eyes. And tongue, I’m sure.”

 “Ugh, settle down, whore,” Aveline sneered.

Hawke, who was very thankful for the diversion away from Fenris, decided to make light of the situation the best way she knew how. By making a total ass of herself. She cleared her throat and when she was fully satisfied with everyone’s eyes, she put on her most seductive face and reached for the buttons on her tunic. “Now that I have your attention…” she unhinged one of the buttons and slowly made her way down to the next, “if this is what you want to see, I’m more than happy to oblige.” And with the last button removed, Hawke dramatically pulled apart the cloth to reveal…!

A thick, gender neutral undershirt that somehow impressively suppressed any and all sexual urges.

Varric and Aveline immediately shook with a jovial mirth at the gesture while Isabela and Anders seemed genuinely disappointed with the latter of the two sighing, “I knew it was too good to be true.”

“Take me, if you dare!” Hawke dramatically announced as she thrust her head to the side shyly, still presenting her perfectly clothed chest to the table. Merrill shot her eyes between Isabela, Varric, and Hawke, as if trying to decide which emotion to convey other than confusion. She eventually shook her head and lowered her eyes while surrendering, “I don’t get it. Did I miss something dirty?”

Isabela narrowed her eyes, somewhat annoyed by all that sexual build up for the lackluster finale, “Yes, Kitten, in fact we all did. What ever possessed you to wear something so horribly _constricting_?”

Hawke ventured a glance at the ceiling, which was thankfully not riddled with holes or vermin, though she did notice a peculiar inscription whose presence was only made known by a sudden flicker of light. It read: “Varric was here.” _How…_

Pushing aside her investigation of The Case of the Flying Dwarf temporarily, she replied, “I’m of a mind that I should have been born a man, and therefore, am pursuing a new lifestyle. Starting with my clothing. I hope you will all continue to be supportive of me and my endeavors, despite my change in gender. I’m still Hawke, just hopefully with a new appendage within the nex—“

Fenris, with his impeccable timing, went into a coughing spell at Hawke’s words and struggled to regain control. Varric offered a few firm pats on his back, which seemed to subdue its violence and send him on the road to recovery.

“You alright there, Broody?”

Fenris coughed one last time through strained words, “Fine.”

Perfectly content with her antics, Hawke began buttoning her blouse but hesitated when she caught a very flustered Fenris eyeing her as she did so. Though his burning stare had retreated from her form the moment she became aware of it, she was still able to catch the red staining his cheeks, the strained expression sitting on his brow, and the pitiful look in those sparkling, green orbs. _Well, that’s not necessarily a bad sign,_ she thought as she continued her work on her blouse. _Hearts are such fickle things, aren’t they? It’s really such a headache._

Still sore on the subject, like a woman denied climax, Isabela groaned, “Maker, Hawke, did you toss your sex appeal into the fire or something?”

_Haven’t you heard, Isabela? It dove off a cliff in utter shame._ Although she came _this_ close to flat out saying it (which would have been a catastrophe with Fenris right there, the only testament to her sexuality), she withheld and selected instead, “You know you wouldn’t have me any other way.”

Isabela pouted and took a swig of her ale while giving her one of her trademark winks, “You just need a good lay. When’s the last time you had one, anyway?”

Well, if it was ever questionable that Hawke possessed shape-shifting abilities, this was the defining moment where the truth rang true. For you see, Hawke’s body froze so suddenly, and though it’s debatable on whether she reached a temperature of absolute zero, her cells reconfigured themselves until she was nothing but an icicle. Fenris’s transformation, however, was the polar opposite as he was lit aflame, burning brightly and dangerously. The heat from his expecting eyes lapped at her frozen remains, threatening to reduce her to nothing but a puddle depending on her answer. Despite this extraordinary milestone in science, the density of those witnessing it completely failed to take heed. And in the blink of an eye, it had come to pass on a very intelligent and elegantly posed question:

“Are you not getting enough rest, Lethallan?”  

Varric grinned while brushing the topic aside. “I don’t think that’s what she meant, Daisy. But come to think of it, you do look pretty worn out, Hawke. You feeling alright?”

_What is this? Twenty questions? Is my life really so interesting that everyone else’s eccentricities pale in comparison? And could somebody **please** pry this elf’s eyes off of me?!_

“I’m fine, Varric, really. But if you keep prodding me for information, I’m going to have to start charging. Time is money. Are we playing or not?”

“Well if you’re that excited to surrender the Amell family’s fortune, then who am I to stand in your way?”

And with that, the game of Wicked Grace commenced with a small smile ghosting over Fenris’s features.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally forgot, but I don't anything in or around the Dragon Age universe/title/what have you. And of course, I'm not getting any profit for this. All of it belongs to Bioware. This applies to all chapters.

With tankards and mugs scattered about the table, their contents rolling like waves in the stomachs of their respective owners, a stiff atmosphere hung like an ominous cloud over the heads of the players. Tensions had fluctuated so frequently in a span of only half an hour that much of the group had begun to break under the pressure. The two elves were on a considerable losing streak that would have been a feat for the ages, had it been their intention to dig themselves into the abysmal pit of debt. The mage, though not quite in the financial hole as his peers, was growing desperate with each passing minute, hoping to reclaim his lost coin. Isabela, Aveline, and Varric, however, were offering their best performances in months.

And then there was Hawke who was suffering from a different pain altogether, though its intensity was of equal measure. Or rather, she was insanely bored. Having been ousted from the game early on by a majority vote for “winning too much” while being “obnoxiously smug” about it, Hawke was now condemned to an eternity of studying the grime caked to the wooden panels of the walls. And so, here sat the Champion of Kirkwall, Slayer of Dragons, Destroyer of Demons, Charmer of Villains, and Stealer of Sovereigns with her eyes glued to that enigmatic message on the ceiling as it mocked her intelligence. _I swear to you vile words,_ she declared in her mind, _I will uncover the secrets of your birth and you shall rue the day you made me question my sense of reality._

“Varric?” she asked.

Varric looked up from his cards, worn from use and old age, “Hm?”

“Do you own a ladder?”

“Uh, nope. Sorry Hawke. Why?”

“Perish the thought.”

Dissatisfied with this answer but unwilling to rack her brain for the solution to this enigma, Hawke peered at the cards Merrill and Fenris held with refined solemnity. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that could save Merrill with that hand, but Fenris? Depending on the next card pulled, there was real potential to rake in the pot. And then it hit her. Maybe if she gave him a little advice, she could get back on his good side and things would just go back to normal. That would be great. And if Flemeth would just swoop down and teach her that dragon trick, life would be perfect.

As Hawke allowed her eyes to linger on his slender form in hopes of summoning enough courage, she became mesmerized by his expression of intense concentration. It was, after all, a look he dawned often whether in the heat of battle, or, more recently, in removing her clothing and watching it slide to the floor. The memory on its own was enough to send forth an involuntary shiver from deep within. But just as quickly as it emerged, it was devoured by a concoction of crushed pride, shriveling self-esteem, and blatant disappointment. _So much for building up courage._ She leaned back in her chair, lifting off on its hind legs while using the table as leverage. Another nervous habit. _No, no! It’s now or never. Do or die, Hawke!_

Just as Fenris moved to fold, Hawke blurted out rather eloquently, “Wait, Fenris, don—”

Remember how the Maker had a seemingly sadistic sense of humor? And how he basically nourished himself on the tears and agony of humiliated, pitiable, broken-hearted creatures in the midst of an identity crisis? Well, He wasn’t quite done with Hawke, and boy was He thirsty. What came next was nothing short of a masterpiece. The legs of Hawke’s chair had caved beneath her, forcing her body to the floor with so much force, nearby patrons could’ve sworn the earth below them quaked. If only the reality of the situation was truly that epic. She’d at least feel less like an ass and more like a _badass_. Now, as she lay in the remnants of a long forgotten chair (or was that her pride?), a sharp, throbbing pain pulsated through her head. Divine Retribution had a habit of toying with these ragdolls called “people.” Why she ever expected anything less was a mystery. Moreso than that damned inscription taunting her from above.

“Hawke!” was the word of the day as everyone cried out unanimously.

“Are you okay?!” Anders worried.

“Yeah,” she huffed, “Everything’s here, I think.” With her vision still a blur, she raised herself up in an attempt to stand. But that was apparently an act of pure stupidity as her balance had seemingly skipped town on her—possibly with her sex appeal—while gravity decided to have a heyday. Before her body tumbled back to the floor, several hands were upon her, supporting her. As she returned to an upright position, worried eyes scanned her body from head to toe for any signs of damage.

Aveline rested her hand on Hawke’s back while calmly suggesting, “Perhaps you should take it easy.”

“Guys, really,” Hawke laughed, “I’m fine; just a bit of bad luck is all. I was bound to run into it some day.”

Varric, securing his claim to the title of the most sensible dwarf in Thedas, interjected, “Yeah, well, you should still lie down. You can use my bed.”

As the group navigated her towards aforementioned furniture, Hawke resisted while claiming, “Honestly! It’s just a little bump; I can sit!” And just as she finished her sentence, she tripped over her own two feet and instantly found herself in very familiar arms. Arms that had been avoiding her. Arms she had hoped to avoid as well. Clinging to his chestplate for dear life, Hawke peeked up at her savior meekly only to find a sternness that said, “I will take you where you stand.” Or maybe, “I will kill you where you stand.” One of the two. It was always so hard to tell.

“Hawke.” He stated firmly.

Or that.

“Ah, sorry Fen—“

“Are you trying to make everyone worry?”

Despite the growing desire to fidget in his heavy grasp, Hawke settled for brushing her hair behind her ear while donning her most tenacious mask. “Well, if means I’ll get special treatment—“

“Go to bed. Now.”

Startled by his demanding tone, Hawke’s eyebrows shot up. “Ah, well, you see…”

And with that, negotiations were clearly closed as Fenris swept her off her feet. Cradling her in his arms, the vicarious man carried her to Varric’s bed while calling over his shoulder to Anders, “Make yourself useful and come quickly.”

As Anders winded through the group and to the bedside, Fenris set her down gently, his body leaning over her as she settled in, never moving. As she gazed into his eyes, Hawke found something very unreadable. It also didn’t help her nerves any when she recalled a scene just like this, only with less clothes, more rhythmic movements, some sweat, and tons of moaning. That very image was etched into her mind, stirring a maelstrom of emotions within her heart. Was it hot in here? It felt like it was hot in here.

“Maker’s breath! Your pulse is going a thousand miles a minute!”

Hawke, more embarrassed than she’d ever been in her entire life, except for the time Carver peeped at her in the bath, staunchly rubbed her eyes at the horror of it all. _Gee, Anders, could you speak up? I don’t think the whole of Kirkwall quite heard you._

Sensing her discomfort, Fenris raised himself up and turned to Anders, “Do not allow her to set foot off this bed until she receives sufficient treatment and rest. You can manage at least that much, can you not, _mage_?”

Anders shot Fenris his most vicious glower and retorted, “I _do_ run a clinic, you know. If anyone’s qualifications need to be questioned, it’s _yours_. Tell me, Fenris, did you also study in the healing school of magic? No? Then you’re free to leave.”

Giving Anders one last death glare, Fenris turned on his heel to head back towards his seat as he muttered obscenities in a foreign tongue.

“Hawke,” Anders beckoned softly, “I’m going to need you to turn away from me so I can get a better look at your head.”

Although she obliged, Hawke proclaimed with a sigh of exasperation, “Alright, but you’re not going to find anything out of the ordinary. I’m already feeling better.”

As his healing hands worked their magic over her, Anders chuckled, “That may be so, but you’ve definitely got a little swelling back here. Broke the skin too. But, it’s nothing life-threatening.”

“Does this mean I can get back to swimming in ale?”

Smirking, Anders frosted a wet cloth and held it against the swelling. “Not quite yet, just to be sure. I healed the wound, but I’d feel more comfortable if you kept ice on it until the swelling goes down. Well, that’s pretty much it, Hawke. Shall I keep you company until you’re ready to get back to the table?”

“No, don’t worry about me. I’d be happier if you went back and had fun with everyone.”

“Are you sure? Speaking with a beautiful woman is one of life’s joys, you know.”

 _So I’ve heard,_ Hawke thought bitterly while distracting herself with examining her hands; her nails uneven from finger to finger. A result of constant ambushes, no doubt. Didn’t people have more to do with their lives than throw them away?

However, as her mind began to get dangerously close to venturing into restricted places, mostly involving Fenris, she sang dramatically, “Please, Anders! Honor this girl’s last dying wish. Be happy for me!”

With that, Anders swore to fulfill it while avenging her death and returned to his seat at the table. And now she was chained to a dwarf’s bed. And alone. There was only one thing left to do: start getting familiar with the molding in the walls on _this_ side of the room.

_Could this night get any worse?_


	3. 3

With the passage of an hour, The Hanged Man began to fester with life as more problematic persons entered in pursuit of drowning their troubles in that familiar golden liquid. The walls boomed with gossip, slurs, challenges of honor, broken glass, and skidding wood. The boisterous chatter evolved into a creature so magnificently enormous, it seeped through the cracks between the panels and into the night—a signal to its species to come forth. No room was safe from its touch, save for one. The squatters—or friends; whatever you prefer—in Varric’s room had submerged themselves in so much ale, cards, and competition, their drunken states threatened to squash this socially constructed monster and all of Kirkwall.

This generous joviality was in no small part due to Hawke’s return to the table. Having been deemed healthy by the medical professional, Hawke’s gratefulness had overflowed with an excitement that oozed out in the most appropriate way possible: by poking fun at everyone at the table. By the time their initial offense had subsided, and with the help of several ales, their moods had significantly lightened. Though they had raised this prodigal child on a pedestal as their social god, she was still forbidden from gambling with them. It should also be noted that Hawke had no chair in which to return, resulting in a very unsettling situation. Particularly because Varric had suggested sharing Fenris’s seat since they were “joined at the hip anyway.” As much as the notion had sent her heart into cardiac arrest, she was not completely opposed to it. And while she had convinced herself she’d read too much into Fenris’s reaction, a flash of the same seemed to appear on his face just as the last syllable was loosed from the dwarf’s snarky lips. Though, before he could answer, a very drunk Anders had patted his thighs and chanted: “Oh dear leader! Will you not rest your tired legs on this humble follower’s lap?”

Before Hawke and Fenris could express anything other than pure astonishment at his unexpected boldness, Isabela had thrown in her two cents; an offer to which Hawke ultimately succumbed. Namely, sitting on her lap to avoid a potential crisis in a strange and unstable love triangle. And so there sat Hawke, her body firmly pressed between scandalous, thieving thighs. Granted, it wasn’t Hawke’s _best_ decision, but it wasn’t quite the worst either. As bizarre as that may seem, to fully understand the gravity of her current situation, it must be described carefully and thoroughly to leave behind no confusion.

Isabela was constantly and persistently groping her.

The moment Hawke had relented and sat on her leg, the pirate’s hands were upon her booty—both metaphorically and literally—and all other territories of marked interest. Such as her thighs and breasts. All that was required to settle everyone between a rock and a hard place (haaa), was one firm—and highly inappropriate—squeeze.

_Hawke, unwilling to create anymore unnecessary tension between the mage and the elf, immediately accepted Isabela’s offer and moved to share the seat. When Isabela had failed to comply with this request, the two had shared in an awkward silence in which a band of troubadour crickets began to collaborate on a musical rendition of the night’s adventures—if they can be called that._

_“Uh, Isabela?”_

_“I’m not moving. You can sit right_ here.” _And with that, Isabela sensually slid her fingers across her thighs. Unsurprised, Hawke sighed and submitted sarcastically, “My body is yours, madam. Please be gentle.”_

 _With a devious smirk that should have raised red flags all around the room, Isabela said softly, “Oh, I make_ no _promises.”_

And with that, she had snatched up Hawke’s cleavage in one swift move, fondling them with a titillating (haaaa) roughness that resulted in an involuntary yelp of surprise and—as much as she hated to admit it—pleasure. The faces of Hawke, Fenris, Anders, and Merrill lit up like fireworks. Varric and Aveline, incidentally, were unfazed by the crudeness of the event and therefore, were ultimately disinterested.

“Ahh, you may have fooled me earlier with that tacky undershirt, but I can definitely _feel_ them.” Isabela mused.

Hawke, while trying to wrench those dark serpents Isabela called hands away from her chest, cried out in protest. As she writhed in the Rivaini’s grasp, her eyes were drawn to Fenris, whose blush had extended all the way to his ears. _Great. Sexual tension, my best friend, it’s been_ ages _since I last saw you._

Apparently unable to withstand the torment, Fenris snarled, “If you _must_ flaunt your sexual aptitude at every opportunity, leave Hawke out of it!”

“Oh, what’s this? Do I detect a hint of jealousy? Well, if you want her, you’ll have to take her from me,” teased Isabela.

“Varric!” Hawke whined, “Isabela’s doing perverted things to me.”

“Rivaini, let your friend go. You’re bothering her,” Varric stated with as much exasperation as he could muster.

“That’s the point of payback, Varric,” Isabela retorted.

“I’ll tell you how Bianca got her name.”

Held against her will one moment, Hawke spent the next becoming acquainted with the floor for a second time that night. Merrill, who had been shyly squirming in her seat, called herself to action by lending a helping hand to restore Hawke’s proper verticality. “Are you alright, Lethallan? You can sit with me if that makes you feel any better.”

“Sure, Merrill, that’d be—“

Suddenly, the loud grating of wood against wood echoed throughout the room. A very irritated elf with shimmering white hair was standing before them, muscles straining with uncontrolled tension. As Hawke and Merrill stared at Fenris with more wonderment than was necessary, he slid his chair closer and wrapped his spike-adorned hands around Hawke’s arm, twirling her into the seat. Satisfied with the completion of his task, he waltzed toward the wall behind Varric and rested against it with all the grace and straight out coolness that existed within Lowtown. Which, thinking about it, may not be much. In all of Kirkwall, then. If his stance could scream any louder, “Look at this cool kid,” the world as they knew it would simply implode from the imbalance of magnitude. With a stoic nonchalance, Fenris explained, “You can take my seat. I’m used to standing anyway.”

Aveline, who was very keen on the elf’s mannerisms for obvious guard-related reasons, understood this gesture as one of pure affection. It was interesting. Or rather, she found it extremely amusing. The dance these two kept doing around each other was unbelievably entertaining, but rough around the edges. Though, it was obvious they were both out of practice, what with Hawke being constantly bombarded by verbal, moral, psychological, and physical conflicts and Fenris, well, being caught up in the same just by association. What Aveline found so idiotic, though, was Fenris’s insistence on maintaining a cautious distance while Hawke accommodated it. The sooner he closed the gap, the better. Since Aveline was a firm believer in this hypothesis, it was therefore hysterically ironic that when it had come to pass, that gap had actually expanded rather than narrowed. Where there was once a crack, there now stood a canyon. Oh, life. Always such the tease.

“Why don’t you just go downstairs and bring in another? You’re all being so bloody foolish. I mean, think, people,” Aveline muttered.

Fenris, pondering this, nodded once solidly and moved towards the exit. As Hawke watched him leave, sitting as a well-behaved child, Aveline preyed upon her like a wolf to a lamb, “And you—since you’re not doing anything—can go get us another round.”

“When did you get so bossy?” Hawke asked with feigned sulking.

Aveline smirked, “When your idiocy became so extreme that you forgot how to sit in a chair.”

“Low blow,” she mumbled. With that, Hawke spun on her heel and out of the room. As she descended the staircase murmuring slurs against her red-haired beast of a friend, Fenris began to ascend, chair in arm. Realizing they were alone together, her heart skipped a beat, suddenly unaware of which formalities to convey in passage.

Because nodding and smiling would have been much too acceptable, Hawke instead opted for, “So… how’s the weather?” _Idiot, idiot, idiot. You’re such an idiot! Maker strike you down where you stand!_

Fenris halted his step at the inquiry, apparently perplexed by the strangeness of it all. Despite this, he recovered, “Are you leaving?”

Hawke raised her hands up to cross them into an ‘X’ as she shook her head, “Nope, I’ve been demoted to drink duty. Boss’s orders.”

Fenris glanced to the side, as if considering this with untold detail before he returned solemnly, “Let me put this chair down. I’ll help you carry them back up.”

“Oh, look at you, always rushing in to help. But it’s quite alright, Fenris. I’m sure I can handle a few tankards.” If Fenris had been given a chart quantifying the data relative to her appreciation of the offer, she would have died from embarrassment. Thankfully, he was no mind-reader. Or analyst, for that matter.

“No,” he smirked—wait, smirked?—slightly, “I was actually more concerned about you dropping them. Considering your previous _disagreement_ with balance earlier.”

Hawke would have frowned in annoyance had she not been absolutely elated at the idea of Fenris lightheartedly ridiculing her. With as much false betrayal as she could manage, she pouted with her trademark sarcasm, “Gee, Fenris, you’re the best pal any girl could ask for. Well come along then. Chop chop! If you’re too slow, I might fall down the stairwell with your precious drinks.”

Though her face spoke of insult, her tone spun tales of an unassailable camaraderie.

“I won’t be but a minute.” He quickened his step and disappeared from her sight as she continued her descent into the main room of the building.

Maybe things were finally starting to get back to normal.

Yeah. And maybe the Hero of Ferelden once scavenged for nugs in their spare time.

Wait.

...

Just as Hawke had finished placing her order to Corff, Fenris finished the final step in his long, lanky stride. Having spent the last few minutes escaping into the sanctuary that was her mind, Hawke had managed to refine several greetings and topics of conversation. You know, to avoid another So-How’s-The-Weather Catastrophe. However, that time now seemed entirely for naught the moment her eyes fell upon Fenris. For Merrill had trudged along carefully behind him. If his sullenness was anything to go by, he wasn’t too thrilled about it either. But then, when was Fenris _ever_ thrilled about Merrill?

“Well,” she spoke in hopes of suppressing her physical disappointment, “When I heard help was on the way, I wasn’t expecting this many volunteers.”

Folding his arms and shifting his weight to one leg, Fenris curled his upper lip as he spoke with unrestrained contempt, “I told her not to follow, but the fool refuses to see the discernible difference between being wanted and unwanted.”

Merrill visibly prickled at the insensitivity of the remark, but bounced back with a quickness that only prolonged exposure to Fenris’s hostility could hone. “And I told _you_ that there are seven drinks to carry. Unless you’re hiding more arms under that armor, you could use an extra pair of hands.”

Fenris turned to face her with the severity of a parent scolding a child, “And the pair of hands in question lack the fine motor skills necessary to properly carry anything without sending it crashing to ground or wounding someone in the process!”

“That’s not fair! I only spilled _once_ tonight and our line of work has us constantly hurting people! That’s hardly my fault,” Merrill defended.

As the friction between the two elves began to gain traction, their beverages had been placed at the end of the bar where Hawke provided payment. Caressing the handles of the new set of tankards before her, Hawke approached her companions, dangling their essence in front of them while delicately pacifying, “Yes, yes, that’s all good and fun, but since you’re both here anyway, please do the jobs you were assigned.”

And with that, they marched up the termite-infested stairs, drinks in tow, with occasional bickering consuming the silence between them.

While they each went around the table offering up the heavenly liquid to its drunken recipients, the potential for a new game was being thoroughly discussed in order to overthrow their current entertainment. While the possibility of abandoning their paper stock for something much more “exciting” filled the air, Hawke set down Merrill’s tankard just as Fenris returned to his seat with Merrill on his heels. Still holding both her own and Fenris’s tankards, she gestured towards him to catch his attention.

As the drink passed from her grip to his, she clung to its handle as his fingers ghosted over hers; a faint memory still warm with fragments of emotion. When their eyes met, searching each other, a serene revelation fell upon Hawke. Somehow, she was perfectly fine with this set up. It would take some time for her wounds to heal, but she was determined to remedy them as soon as possible. Both of them forgotten, buried beneath the conversations of the others, Hawke’s eyes twinkled with a contentment unlike any she had known before as she said softly, “I’m glad you’re here, Fenris. You’re still my favorite pers—”

And then, like a plague personally delivered by the Maker Himself, Merrill was upon them. And she came wielding impeccable timing and a severe case of clumsiness.

It had all seemed like a dream, really. Or perhaps it’d be more accurate to say it was a nightmare; one that was unending and dead-set on grinding her sanity down until nothing remained but a gritty trail of misery, madness, and abhorrence.

You see, as this newly discovered understanding was being nurtured between the former lovers, Merrill’s hastiness to reclaim her position at the table had neglected to heed the laws of physics. Particularly that an object in motion, when acting on an object in rest, will send the latter flying into a downward spiral of self-pity and obliterated pride.

Or simply put, Merrill bumped Hawke who then fell into Fenris’s lap, drinks and all.

Although Hawke prayed that her knee _wasn’t_ pressed firmly against Fenris’s groin and her bosom _wasn’t_ cushioning face— _Because it wouldn’t be awkward enough without throwing more sexual tension to the problem_ —the Maker failed to hear her desperate pleas. Or rather, that was a lie. He was much too busy laughing Himself out of existence. Despite the miracle it had taken for Fenris to keep the chair from toppling over (what with him balancing their weight with his strength and a well-placed hand against the wall), it was simply not the one Hawke had asked for. Oh, and let’s not forget that after all that nonsense, they were drenched from head to toe with stale ale.

Like pouring salt on an already infected, festering wound.

Er—or ale, really.

The very distinct chortling of their so-called “friends” reverberated irritatingly throughout the room and into the hall like nails grating on a chalkboard. Perfect.

As the offending liquid slithered down her chin, winding its way down her neck and into her blouse like the treacherous snake that it was, Hawke found herself completely incapable of movement. Although her body endured an unexpected paralysis, her eyes maintained their agility, fueled by fear of the consequences that followed such an ill-conceived plot point. Glancing at Fenris’s expression, hoping for anything but a regression in their progress, she was mortified to find that he could not meet her gaze. In fact, he was intentionally avoiding it. His gauntlet-enveloped hand covered his mouth, his brows slightly furrowed, and a faint red blush colored his cheeks. Horrified that they were seemingly back to square one, even after her successful heart-filled confession, Hawke wailed at the top of her lungs:

_“MERRIIIIILLLLLLLL!!”_


	4. 4

It had taken thousands of hand-written letters of apology, festive and flowing banquets, and several virgin sacrifices to appease the God of Undying Wrath—or just Hawke, for short—and restore the world to homeostasis. And if Merrill was particularly lucky, there would be plentiful rain for the upcoming season.

Two hours had passed since that last mishap; the passage of time leaving the world in a much different state. Empty mugs lay strewn about the room—on tables, chairs, floorboards, and bodies—as satisfied creatures followed their example as they delved into the land of sleep. Merrill, Anders, and surprisingly Isabela had long since abandoned their friends in favor of the company of the Sand Man—the only vestiges of their presence substituted by the national anthem of slumber: soft cooing and thunderous snoring. Of those that remained within the Realm of the Wakened, any mention of sobriety had been properly bathed in alcohol and tangled in beads and confetti. To be frank: they were so drunk it was ridiculous that their bodies escaped the violent clutches of alcohol poisoning.

Aveline hiccupped, a faint glow rising up her neck towards her cheeks, “I already told you—I’m _never_ telling you what… what happened at my honey—honeymoon.”

Hawke, Varric, and even Fenris expelled grumbles of exhaustion at another failed attempt to loose juicy information from the captain.

“Come on, Aveline. You _know_ Isabela’s going to just write it in her friendfiction anyway. It may as well be accurate information,” Varric reasoned, despite the woman’s previous finality.

Aveline shut her eyes and frowned, “All the more reason _not_ to say anything. At all. Ever. At all.”

“Ever.” Hawke nodded.

“Yeah! _Ever_.” Aveline emphasized, as if this was the first time she and the word had become acquainted.

Fenris lifted his mug up to his mouth, desperate to quench an insatiable thirst, only to find disappointment at the bottom of his glass. Empty again. He returned it to the table with a roughness that only accompanies the loss of appropriate neuronal connections as he scoffed, “Can…can we talk about something else for a change?” Though his sentiment was laced with intended seriousness, his slurring and exaggerated gestures smothered any hope of it being properly conveyed.

“Like what, Broody?” Varric leaned in as his eyes rolled up into his head. Clearly a failed attempt of optical mockery.

Hawke snorted into her hand, trying to conceal her amusement. “ _Broody._ ”

Fenris glared at her briefly before decreasing its intensity and returning with the brilliant suggestion, “I don’t know. _Something else._ ”

Varric looked up, as if truly considering this before meeting the elf’s eyes. Though his lips unraveled nothing, his eyes divested an honest truth: “I’m just shitting you. I’m not changing the subject.”

With an aggravated rumble, Fenris slunk into his chair, as if his body was being absorbed.

The drunken dwarf leaned closer to Hawke and Fenris. “So then what about you, elf? How’s your love life?”

Because the concept of subtlety had been thrown out the window the moment that accursed ale touched their lips, both Hawke and Fenris leaped into action to overcompensate for the suggestive nature in Varric’s question. Namely, they both flailed ridiculously while shouting in synchrony:

“NO ONE CARES ABOUT FENRIS—NOTHING HAPPENED.”

“WHAT—I’VE NEVER DONE ANYTHING LIKE THAT EVER.”

“At all.” Aveline sniggered.

“Oh sod off, you… you… soulless ginger.” Hawke spouted as Varric and Aveline engaged in another wild fit of laughter. Once the two had calmed their excessive delight, their counterparts at the other end of the table were still stewing in mild irritation at being the butt of a joke. They had, after all, marinated, seasoned, and plated themselves thoroughly for their friends. The only thing left to do was shove apples in their mouths and they’d be well on their way to being the main course for the evening.

Thankfully, they could avoid that embarrassment since their inhibitions were still firmly intact.

Wait.

“So,” Aveline started, “would you like to sign a, um, confession, or would you rather verb—verba—say it?”

Fenris raised a dark eyebrow at this. “Say what?” Hawke, who had retreated into her world of drunkenness again, whispered quietly, “ _Say whaaaat?_ ”

Aveline picked up her ale and downed the last drop before continuing, “Say that you like Hawke.”

Cast from her daze and hurtling straight through her safety net, Hawke’s eyes widened at the unanticipated bluntness. Something this sensitive really deserved a lighter touch, didn’t it? Right? Oh please say it did and we can void the entire conversation.

As the last syllable seeped out of Aveline’s mouth like an infectious pus, Fenris visibly stiffened, his eyes shielded by snow-colored strands of hair. In an attempt to distract herself from the flood of pessimism that threatened to drown her, Hawke traced the rim of her mug with a single drop of the golden residue. Circling over and over.

“No.” Fenris said coldly, resolutely, and unflinchingly.

Despite the sudden chill in the air, Aveline persisted, never one to retreat. “No you won’t say it, or no you don’t like her?”

Melting from the harsh, unforgiving flare of the spotlight, Fenris rose from his seat and slammed his hands down upon the table—new scars decorating its wooden flesh. “Must you pry where you don’t belong! I said what I said, interpret it however you will. It is of no consequence to me!”

Varric, Aveline, and Hawke stared in astonishment at Fenris’s provoked outburst. The man was the very definition of agitation, even prone to cursing in a foreign tongue when disturbed, but it was a rare sight when his anger dominated his sense. This was a Fenris of unknown capabilities; a Fenris that Hawke did not care to witness. But she still couldn’t resist the urge to soak in his intensity.

Though Fenris had not reclaimed his seat, Varric patted the table gently while speaking with a sultry voice, “Hey now, you know we’re only teasing. How about you head downstairs and get another round? That’ll make you feel better, I promise.”

While Fenris motioned towards his seat, not quite willing to abandon his pride in favor of good tidings, Hawke stretched her aching body beside him. Eyes closed and head spinning in a slight vertigo, she yawned, “That sounds great. Maker knows I could use another drink.”

 “No,” thundered the Rage Demon inside Fenris (kidding, of course), “That’s the last thing you need right now.”

Hawke, still a little on edge from his previous coldness, met his stubborn glower and challenged, “And why’s that, Fenris? Sick of spending all your coin on me? And here I thought we were courting.”

To say that comment didn’t fluster Fenris in the least would be like saying the Arishok enjoyed the company of harlots immensely. Which is quite the image. Quite disturbing and annoyingly persistent, actually. There are not enough apologies in the world to erase that monstrosity of a picture. Anyway, it obviously bothered him.

“You want to do this here, in front of everyone?”

“Kinky.” Hawke smirked and blew a quick kiss. It was most certainly an affectionate gesture on the surface, but within the storming depths of her soul, there raged only turmoil and scorn. And alcohol. Was that mentioned yet? Well, lots of alcohol.

Varric raised an eyebrow hesitantly as he glanced at Aveline, “Is it just me, or is the tension in the air so thick that it’d break your sword if you tried to cut it?”

“How very per—perceptive,” Aveline stated drunkenly sarcastic.

“That’s not what I—“ He sighed harshly in his frustration and snapped, “Yes, Hawke, everything’s joke to you, isn’t it? It’s not as endearing a quality as you’ve convinced yourself it is. In reality, it’s annoying. You’re insufferable!”

Well, where the hell did _that_ come from?

The entire table fell silent as Hawke’s eyes widened, slowly feeling the sting from the verbal lashing she just endured. He was never this cold to her. It had been ages since he’d roughly pushed her aside. Fenris and Hawke, thick as thieves, the greatest duo who ever lived. Where Hawke went, Fenris followed and despite their differences—when they had them—they were always calmly discussed while respecting each other’s views. How did they get here? And how the hell did that stupid carved message get all the way up on the ceiling?! Varric’s a freaking _dwarf_ , damn it!

 _Now I’m pissed._ _Well, I mean, we’ve established that. But now in both meanings of the word,_ thought Hawke.

“’Insufferable’, huh? So that’s how you feel?” Hawke turned away from him, a stoic glare masterfully chiseled upon face as she raised her head; a domineering gesture, without question. Everyone shifted in their seats, having witnessed that expression before. It was usually reserved for the foulest, vilest villains for whom Hawke harbored nothing but disgust.

Fenris’s resolve wavered the moment their lines of sight met. Like a rabbit stumbling into a den of wolves. Which was ironic, considering the meaning of his name. He had crossed a line, one he knew he hadn’t crossed in, well, forever. “Look, Hawke, I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorr—“

“Oh no, Fenris,” Hawke interjected, her words dripping with venom though softly spoken, “You can’t take it back now.”

Fenris’s eyebrows shot up like a bolt of lightning at her retort. Hawke was never unforgiving with him. When she was cross, she would state the obvious and make him see the error of his ways. But this was pure vengeance; something he had never incurred from her before.

Turning away from him to stare off into space, Hawke quickly exchanged her mask of impending doom for one riddled with both annoyance and boredom. Her determination unhindered, she folded her arms and stated matter-of-factly:

“Fenris and I had sex and now he’s avoiding me. Gee, what a dirtbag. What a real punk. What’s _that_ guy’s problem.”

“Hawke!” Fenris shouted in disbelief.

After she had finished, she remained perched in her chair like a statue; unfaltering, unwavering, heartless. That confession was more than enough to massacre a small village, but due to unfortunate locations, it was Fenris’s entrails that had been tossed about the room, staining the walls and floor with a thick crimson. Drenched in the essence of the elf’s untimely slaughter, Hawke—unregretful and feeling somewhat lighter—reached for her tankard and raised it to her mouth, reveling in her bloodbath of a victory. She took a couple good gulps before slamming it back down on the table, as if she were squashing an insect. An annoying insect with white hair named Fenris.

Fenris visibly sank in his seat at the verbal bombardment, his head low, his body leaning towards the table, and his face entirely devoid of color. His comrades, however, were a perfect foil to his disposition. While mortification devoured his innards, an untamed excitement bounded within their souls. Aveline’s face pulsated with a sudden blood rush while Varric grinned, relentless in his exploitation of the truth. Yes, Hawke’s words had wrought quite the reactions. It was a godsend that their sleeping friends—particularly Isabela—were not conscious to experience this unusually hostile confession.

 “So, you two finally battled it out in the bedroom, huh? I can’t say I’m surprised but—“ Varric was immediately interrupted.

“That’s no longer the case,” Fenris grumbled as he straightened.

“And I thought _I_ was bad at this,” laughed Aveline.

Varric chortled at the reference before suddenly steeling himself, “But, what’s this about you avoiding her, Broody?”

It was Hawke’s voice that sliced the air with calculated precision, “Yes, you see, pursuing a relationship with me is _painful,_ Varric. Maker forbid that someone who devotes all his energy to _brooding_ could actually feel _happiness_! That would be too out of character.”

“You don’t say?” Varric smirked.

Aveline narrowed her eyes at Fenris with unrestrained disdain, “So you think you can just use people and walk all over them when you’re satisfied, is that it?”

Fenris gazed to the side of the room and said resolutely, “Leaving was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“So then why’d you do it?” Aveline berated with an unexpected soberness.

Somewhat caught off-guard, the elf grew quiet; his hand pushing his bangs out of his eyes as he rested his head on the strength of a single arm. With a pitiable and tortured look, he chanced a glance at the scorned woman at his side—an exhausted sigh escaping through gritted teeth. It was painstakingly obvious that his suffering was self-inflicted. And like a selfish fool, Hawke had only contributed to that suffering through public shaming. Of course Fenris would have issues belonging to her—or anyone for that matter. He was, after all, an ex-slave constantly on the run from that very problem. It was all so very apparent to her now. If only this revelation had occurred a couple of minutes ago! And while she was sober. _Well, there’s only one thing I can do to set this right_ , she thought with refreshed vigor.

Hawke suddenly roared with a thunderous laughter, the likes of which her friends had only ever encountered when she’d played a ruse or told a very poor joke. She laughed so hard, tears began to stream down her face in torrents as she gasped for air. As her laughing slowed, she turned to Fenris and shoved him playfully while resting her arm on his shoulder as she announced, “See, Fenris? I told you! I told _you_! And you were worried no one would buy it.” Still laughing, she wiped away her tears nonchalantly and gave him a secret wink that went unnoticed by everyone but him. But Fenris’s confusion far outweighed his ability to reaffirm this elaborate charade. Drawing a pitiful blank, he instead opted to soak in her visage. Though her laughter had ceased, her tears pressed on. Curious.

“Really, Hawke? You’re throwing us a red herring? We may have had one too many drinks, but not nearly enough to buy that load of garbage.”

“Maker, you’re so embarrassing,” Aveline added unenthused.

“But… no, I’m serious, it was a joke. You know, ‘Ha Ha Ha’?” Hawke muttered sheepishly; an unsuppressed expression of bewilderment encompassing her features.

Varric leaned back in his chair, slumping his shoulders as he did so, “If that’s the best you got, you must be desperate. So… what’re you willing to give in exchange for our silence?”

An ominous miasma seeped from Hawke’s body as a sharp glint shimmered in her abysmal eyes. Her face had returned to a stone. If they weren’t going to accept this as some kind of elaborate and pathetic ruse, then she’d be damned if she let the truth reach other undesired ears. She stated flatly, “Well… I won’t kill you.”

Silence.

Threats were so very useful when your name was Hawke.

Hawke smirked devilishly as her body resumed a state of relaxation, “I suppose the real question here is,” she paused, “what are you willing to give _me_ in exchange for your life?”

“Hawke.” Aveline warned, her hand twitching in response to the proximity of her sword.

“Alright,” Varric surrendered, “You win. Way to suck the fun out of it.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I wanted?”

Hardly amused by her persistence, the snide dwarf fled to the realm of dramatics to seek salvation from the recurrent tediousness, “Oh mighty Hawke! I live only to serve thee! What is it that you desire?”

Having fully recovered from her alter-ego of, you know, _Death_ , Hawke attempted to express her frustration and confusion with her eyebrows. To say the least, it was a total failure. And it only contributed to everyone’s suspicions that the woman was well beyond the depths of sanity. She deferred to the use of her vocals as she questioned, “How on earth did you write ‘Varric was here’ on your ceiling?”

The group froze in silent contemplation. Fenris, who had previously committed himself to the afterlife due to the excessive damage from his humiliation, was revived with new purpose as he began to search for this mysterious message in the dilapidated boards above them. On the other side of the table sat an ambitious Aveline who, too, sought out the offending inscription.

Varric, moving his sight from Hawke to Fenris, uttered with caution, “You’re kidding right? You don’t remember? What about you, Broody?”

Startled by his sudden involvement, Fenris raised a dark and inquisitive eyebrow at his companion. “Me? I have no recollection of this.”

“It was your idea!” Varric bellowed in disbelief.

Hawke and Fenris exchanged looks before returning their gaze to Varric who had, by the way, riled himself up from the shock of his friend’s sudden amnesia. “Wow, you guys really _were_ smashed that night. Well, it was last week right before you guys headed home. The elf suggested I ‘leave my mark’ on my room while _you,_ ” he pointed at Hawke, “said it should be on the ceiling. It was just a matter of heavy lifting after that. You sat on Broody’s shoulders and I stood on yours. And so solves the mystery of the Drunken Message.”

At the explanation given her, Hawke brought the images to life in her mind as she envisioned a very drunk version of herself climbing—or stumbling, rather—over a Fenris of a very similar state. It was hilarious. So much so, she was sure she’d burst a vein trying to withhold her laughter. The others seemed to be dealing with many different emotions, however.

Having experienced a whirlwind of feelings this night, Aveline decided that this was the last she could handle. She rose from her seat with an undefeated seriousness as she announced, “Well, I think I’ve had my share of insanity for one night. Goodnight everyone.” And with a salute, she headed down the stairs and out the door to a better place. A place where Hawke and all of her baggage would not touch, at least temporarily.

Breaking the silence, Varric posed the question on everyone’s minds, “Well, shall we call it a night? Or do you want details on the physics of last week’s escapade?”

Hawke, pondering this, suggested, “Hm, what do you say we ditch this life and go into acrobatics?” Varric, and surprisingly Fenris, snickered at the comment while shaking their heads at the ridiculousness of it.

“Oh Hawke,” Varric chortled, “You’re—“

“Amazing? Beautiful? The Maker’s gift to the world?”

“More like the Maker’s punchline.”

“Or the Maker’s punching bag,” chimed Fenris.

“Thanks guys, you always know what to say. And if that’s everything,” she said as she also made to rise from her seat. A hand with a red fabric tied around its arm latched onto her, its owner’s eyes peering straight into her soul, beckoning. It was unfair, really. Fenris had those beautiful, apologetic eyes and that perfect smolder down to an art. Somehow, looking at him now, she felt that everything was going to be just fine between them. If she was lucky, there was still something salvageable in this mess of a relationship.

Moved by his tenderness, Hawke’s tears pooled in her eyes but quickly dissipated as she blinked them away. She reached down and mussed his hair, startling him at her sudden rashness. “Well if you want to walk me home, all you need to do is ask! I didn’t even know I was in such high demand these days.” She grinned.

“Don’t push it, Hawke,” Fenris warned playfully.

And so, ladies and gentleman, the uncommon combination of these two miscreants waltzed its way into the night, bidding farewells to its hospitable host. Fenris accompanied Hawke back to her home, and though they spent most of the walk in silence, it felt comfortable. Well, if you ignore the fact that her heart was pounding so hard that her chest visibly pulsated. So much for keeping her cool. The presence of a past lover seems to have that effect on people, for some reason.

Ah, and there emanated the soft glow of the lantern dwindling above the door to the Hawke Estate; a light amongst the darkness, paving the way to sanctuary. The green vines, shimmering with a yellow hue, intertwined and tangled as they concealed the stone walls. As they approached the door, Hawke’s steps fell behind Fenris’s, like a great weight had been shackled to her ankles. She admired the vision in front of her: a perfect representation of stoicism, strength, and firmness. His white hair swaying in rhythm with the movement of his body—a body of which she had seen every inch, and of course, touched. Firmly rooted at the entrance to her residence, she was quickly stricken with a reluctance to break contact—even if only visually—with this lovely creature. Uncertain as to how to broach the subject, she averted her eyes from his heated stare to rest upon the red cloth on his wrist. It had once belonged to her, along with the small family crest she could now see clinging to his waist. An inexplicable warmth flared within her core at the realization that some remnant of the love in which they had indulged still existed in some form to him. Before her awareness set in, a small and delicate smile had strewn itself across her face as glistening eyes softened with a tender beauty—a vision few ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Fenris’s fingers twitched in response.

“Well,” Hawke quietly uttered, “This is me. And… this was an _interesting_ night, to say the least.”

Fenris nodded solemnly while intently studying his feet. “Yes, it was… certainly eventful.”

Hawke released a puff of air from her nose as she grinned, “I had fun, but that’s probably because I’m still a little drunk. Can’t really feel the ramifications of my actions quite yet.”

Silence.

“Look, Fenris, I just want to say that I’m sorry… you know. About being a jerk. You didn’t deser—”

“It’s fine, Hawke.” Fenris interrupted quickly, “You’re still my favorite person too.”

Astonished by the rarity that is Affectionate Fenris, Hawke ogled him with uncharacteristic amazement. When she finally regained her composure, she gave him a toothy grin filled with both relief and mischief. “Fenris, can you pinch me? Right here?” She pointed at her cheek. “I want to make sure that I’m not dreaming.”

Despite the chuckle that escaped from Fenris’s lips, his feelings of uneasiness betrayed him as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Detecting the awkwardness in the air, Hawke took it as a cue to head inside with a quick goodbye. It was then when she felt her body come to a halting stop. A cold, sharp gauntlet clasped her hand and urged her back towards its owner. Confused eyes met compassionate ones as her body turned to face its captor.

He might have said her name, she wasn’t sure. Her heart was beating much too loudly for her to hear. He stood a little closer, his hand never letting go, while the other reached up to her face but never quite making contact. Her eyes fluttered shut as the heat from his hand radiated against her skin. When that subtle contact broke, a renewed sense of longing flooded her entire system. He made no mention of their relationship or anything since past, but he vowed to always remain at her side.

That was enough for now.

As the door behind her closed with its usual heaviness, she leaned against it in hopes of slowing her racing heart before she crossed the threshold. Yes, the events of the night had been most “eventful” indeed. And Hawke still wasn’t sure if she should cry or dance or both, really. For now, she chose to control her pulse before deciding anything else.

And while Fenris was enshrouded in the darkness of the night, he still worried that passersby would see the vulnerability painted plainly across his cheeks. Quickening his pace to match the tempo of his heart, he bounded towards his mansion. The sooner he was home, the better.

While the two ascended the stairs of their homes to the refuge of their personal chambers, a thought linked by their undeniable connection consumed their minds:

_What you do to me…_

And although Fenris and Hawke weren’t completely back to normal… it almost seemed like just another night at The Hanged Man.

That, unfortunately, no one would remember. Except for Hawke, Fenris, and Varric. But like hell any of them would ever say anything.

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to throw in that my chronology in this may be somewhat off, depending on game plot points. For instance, Aveline clearly has her relationship with Donnic at this point, but I've set it well ahead of Fenris and Hawke's relationship. 
> 
> Oh well, who cares! Doesn't matterrrrrrr!


End file.
